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A WriteGirl Publication ALSO FROM WRITEGIRL PUBLICATIONS

Emotional Map of Los Angeles: Creative Voices from WriteGirl You Are Here: The WriteGirl Journey No Character Limit: Truth & Fiction from WriteGirl Intensity: The 10th Anniversary Anthology from WriteGirl Beyond Words: The Creative Voices of WriteGirl Silhouette: Bold Lines & Voices from WriteGirl Lines of Velocity: Words that Move from WriteGirl Untangled: Stories & Poetry from the Women and Girls of WriteGirl Nothing Held Back: Truth & Fiction from WriteGirl Pieces of Me: The Voices of WriteGirl Bold Ink: Collected Voices of Women and Girls Threads Pens on Fire: Creative Writing Experiments for Teens from WriteGirl (Curriculum Guide)

IN-SCHOOLS PROGRAM ANTHOLOGIES

Unstoppable: Creative Voices of the WriteGirl & Bold Ink Writers In-Schools Programs These Moments: The Creative Voices of the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Ocean of Words: Bold Voices from the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Words & Curiosity: Creative Voices of the WriteGirl In-Schools Program This Is My World: Creative Voices of the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Ready for the Next Chapter: Creative Voices of the WriteGirl In-Schools Program No Matter What: Creative Voices from the WriteGirl In-Schools Program So Much to Say: The Creative Voices of the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Sound of My Voice: Bold Words from the WriteGirl In-Schools Program This Is Our Space: Bold Words from the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Ocean of Words: Bold Voices from the WriteGirl In-Schools Program Reflections: Creative Writing from Destiny Girls Academy Afternoon Shine: Creative Writing from the Bold Ink Writers Program at the Marc & Eva Stern Math and Science School Words That Echo: Creative Writing from Downey, Lawndale and Lynwood Cal-SAFE Schools The Landscape Ahead: Creative Writing from New Village Charter High Schools Sometimes, Just Sometimes: Creative Writing from La Vida West and Lynwood Cal-SAFE Programs Everything About Her: Creative Writing from New Village High School Visible Voices: Creative Writing from Destiny Girls Academy Now That I Think About It: Creative Writing from Destiny Girls Academy Look at Me Long Enough: Creative Writing from Destiny Girls Academy Heather Lim, age 17 A typical millennial’s mental process after posting something.

#summer

I posted a picture of myself lying down in the sand next to my friend. We were wearing white bikinis. Hashtag summer has finally begun!

It’s been five seconds and the only person who liked was my pastor who left the church last year. Hope he’s doing well. It’s been one minute now and a girl commented, fire emoji, heart-eyes emoji, fire emoji.

Compliments, emojis, lies. Refresh for likes. Refresh for fulfillment, for enjoyment, for love. Hashtag bits of dopamine.

I’m waiting. Hashtag when will my phone buzz. I receive no notifications. I Photoshopped this picture to perfection and there are only 20 likes. What a shame.

My friend says self-esteem is maximized, mental health deteriorating. Hashtag delete.

30 Samantha Campbell, age 16 I wrote this poem last year for the Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate competition. It was inspired by the problems, ridicule and struggle I’ve faced through having curly hair over the years but have ultimately accepted as a positive quality.

Curly Hair

A little girl with curly locks, twisted into migraine-inducing braids. Bloody murder from her lips, individuality hidden away, a monster in a sea of straight waves. Tearing at her cursed scalp, she clawed the unruly strands, begging them to straighten. Little girls pet her hair like a petting zoo attraction. Adults fawned over her, exclaimed she was a doll. Doll scalps were straight — she was not a doll but rather an unwanted reject, recalled from toy-store shelves, replaced with a straight blond bun in a dollhouse of replicas. After-school cartoons, straight brown ponytails, braids dragged her head down onto the couch. Magazine covers advertised hot irons in the aisles of department stores. Tiny curious hands, caught red-handed in the bathroom. She dropped her weapon, sentenced to serve time in the corner, mother praising her curly locks.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 31 Vivian Enriquez, age 17 I am not a musical person. When I found out that the theme of the anthology was going to be music, I did not know how I would incorporate it into my poetry. It turns out, writing is one of the only ways I have the ability to be musical. My life experiences and the little research I did on specifc instruments inspired this piece.

Trumpet, Harp, Tambourine, Saxophone

When I was born, I was a trumpet. I shined like clean brass in my father’s eyes. I would feel the vibration of my mother’s lips as she sang to me.

Before the age of ten, I was no longer a trumpet. I was a harp, becoming tired of my parents plucking away at my innocence each time they yelled.

After mighty percussions I tried to hide that I was a tambourine. A tambourine woman with no sign of bruising.

But this is not a sad story. I am a saxophone. One that refuses to hide her voice.

This here, this writing, my heart, the wind that takes a journey through my anatomy, is how I sound and who I am.

32 Nicole Jefferson, age 16 I listen to music all the time. I love that there is always a song to describe exactly how I am feeling when I can’t describe it through my own words. This poem is meant to show the various activities of my life by describing the sounds associated with them.

Soundtrack of My Life

The soundtrack of my life is the clicking of the keys on my computer as I stay up late finishing homework. It is the cheering of crowds at Friday night high school football games and the barking of my dog running to the door to greet me when I come home.

The soundtrack of my life is the wedding band playing “Here Comes the Bride” as I watch my aunt walk down the aisle in her glowing white dress. It is the ringing of my alarm clock at precisely 5:27 every morning and the drip-drops of scattered rain that come every December.

The soundtrack of my life is the clacking of my tap shoes as I do a shuffle, toe-heel. It is the honking of geese on Sengekontacket Pond every summer morning, and it is my best friend and I laughing obnoxiously loud together.

And for all those moments of joyous sound there is a stark opposite. The soundtrack of my life is also the sniffling of my stuffy nose when I get sick. It is the funeral band as they lead the procession out of the church.

Through all of this noise, there is a song to complement every emotion that I am feeling.

And in that, I find solace.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 35 Katarina Lashley, age 17 In this song, I was imagining why people choose to leave their home, or the person they love.

Forgive Me

You look around in the empty town, and see that I am gone. By the theatre, by the park, by the bakery with its line too long.

I left, and you’ll never know what I felt. You’ll just know that I am missing. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.

We were living the lives that children live, kids turned to teenagers, trying to fit in. I tried to squeeze inside a skin that wasn’t mine.

I tried to find a place to belong. Turns out, I was in it all along.

I left, and you’ll never know what I felt. You’ll just know that I am missing. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.

36 Erica Logan, age 18

18 Lunar Years

The moon tells me stories, stories of old rituals and ancient times, its thoughts on life and the world. The moon knows my story, all my 18 years of moons, all the different phases. We’ve grown together, starting out new: dark, stormy, growing into something full, transparent. She lights the night and paves the way for the day. I hope to embody her light and bring a path to those in the night. The moon tells me stories. She reminds me of the gift that this is, the 18th year, the pivotal point, the edge of the cliff, the brink of what is known. So tonight, the last night of 17, I will hold hands with the moon, and together we will step into the edge of tomorrow.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 37 Amayah Watson, age 17 I wrote this because this is me — the titles of music that have changed me. I started writing this at a WriteGirl workshop at the Huntington, and I feel like I came a long way and learned plenty of things about music that I didn’t know before.

My Playlist

I come from singing Doo-Wops and A Cappella, being my own Dangerous Woman, strutting and being confident and a Q.U.E.E.N. Fake Loves and Ill Minds to Blessings I can never forget to always hold true. The False Advertisements of Victorious victories. Traveling and seeing the Vegas Lights shining for miles, but still being a Cali Girl at heart. Covering myself with every song of the world, from centuries to come, and having my L.A. Love. Fallin’ Out and into Misery Business and finding myself. Being Just Fine, listening to myself, being myself. Having some of the Best Mistakes with some Deja Vu along the way, I’ll never Get Around, Without Myself Being Crazy but also Genius and starting over to Repeat.

38 Megan Yang, age 15 I wrote this piece after the very frst WriteGirl workshop we had this season. The positivity of the environment and the bright outlook on the status of women really spoke to me, and I wrote this to commemorate how my views were revived.

For Her Liberty

Though the sun’s last rays had faded to dusk, the first drops fell anew to seed her truth. Through the cracks of her roof, splintered black-blue, they sprinkled her face, lit by lucid youth. The night was still young when she saw their fires burning stilted echoes through her tears. They cast long shadows that played across her eyes, a stamp of mortality, to which she’d belong. She followed the silhouettes as they beat the same trail they’d trodden a mile’s time behind. Followed them even as they were triumphant in their arrogance, prideful of the paths she had paved. They never heard her, never knew her, never looked her way but for those rare moments of contemplation. Yet still, their entitlement served their fall as it did their rise, and as they winked out, ever reluctant, ever sure, as their nights spread thin as their wills, only then did she pen her own tale, sing her own anthem, waltz the rain away.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 39 Sha’Terra Myles, age 17

Three Days

Our Valentine’s Day lasted for three days.

On day one we took our first salsa class. We twisted, dipped and enjoyed our time of peace.

Day two we played volleyball at Venice Beach. He served, I spiked, and neither of us accepted defeat.

Last, we traveled to Paris and ate dinner in the Eiffel Tower. Between his hearty laugh and my twinkling eyes, I realized he’s the love of my life.

40 Valentina Santiago, age 14

Victim Mentality

Verse Stuck in one state of mind One look, you think I’m fine Every day, you’ve been so rough Left me with cuts I just can’t stitch

Verse You came into my life unexpectedly At first I tried to be friendly But then you drink my dreams You aren’t what you seem

Chorus You’re a home-wrecker a gold digger I don’t want your dirty tears on me Or your victim mentality

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 41 Tindi Mashamba, age 16 Tindi joined WriteGirl after moving to the United States from Tanzania. We asked her to share her poem in both English and Swahili.

Mimi Ni Mtoto I Am a Child Sina Mama No Mother

Mimi ni mtoto sina mama I am a child, no mother Mimi ninakja kuishi nawewe I am coming to stay with you Tafadhali nijari Please take care of me Mimi ni mtoto sina mama I am a child no mother

Nikumbatie kwa upendo Hug me tight with love Nibusu kama mama yangu Kiss me as my mother Niambie wanipenda Tell me you love me Mimi ni mtoto sina mama I am a child no mother

Tunza afya yangu Take care of my health Nilishe chakula kizri Feed me yummy food Nipeleke shule Take me to school Mimi ni mtoto sina mama I am a child no mother

Usini nyanyase Don’t abuse me Usini uze kwa wanaume Don’t sell me to the man Usini singizie bali unitetee Don’t accuse me, but be my defender Mimi ni mtoto sina mama I am a child no mother

Nipende kila siku Love me everyday Bila kujali nifanyalo No matter what I do Nipenda kutoka chini ya mayo wako Love me from the bottom of your heart Sababu mimi ni mtoto sina mama Cause I am a child no mother

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 43 Stacy Lee, age 17 I took my favorite sounds growing up and compiled them into a poem. I value each and every sound of my youth.

Breathe

Inhale … singing classes with the excitement of being loud for once. Exhale … my favorite ABBA songs coming from the radio. Inhale … the laughter from my classmates when we played together. Exhale … an orchestra at the Walt Disney Concert Hall playing in harmony. Inhale … my mom singing a lullaby as she rubs my tummy to make it feel better. Exhale … music from instruments my sister would play. I breathe the sounds from my childhood.

44 Blossom Bogen-Froese, age 14 The inspiration for this song is a dumb boy.

What It’s Like to Be Confused

Verse You make me feel like I’ve slept through the week, and I didn’t even get to see your face in my dream.

Chorus This is what it’s like to be confused (what it’s like, what it’s like).

Verse You’re the ring I dropped down the drain. You’re the ugly sweater that got stepped on in the rain.

Chorus This is what it’s like to be confused.

Verse I hope you get gum in your hair and can’t get it out. Forget your pencil while taking a test. I guess, I maybe love you.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 45 Courtney Hayforth, age 17 During the WriteGirl Poetry Workshop at the Pasadena Public Library, one of the guest poets encouraged us to write about an imperfection we had and turn it into a positive memory.

I Am Not Perfect, but My Imperfections Remind Me of Something That Is

The air cuts across my weathered skin. Weak and fragile, it puts up a good fight, but there were casualties from this war seen in the form of dry flakes leaving my body’s surface.

When it’s cold, my skin, a matryoshka doll, comes off in layers, but those dead cells take me back to thirty-degree weather, winds strong enough to whistle in my ear, the simplest harmonies to my middle-school years in that small town, Fort Mill, with more trees than cars, where nature dominated civilization, where I first met my best friend.

46 Isabella Orozco De La Vega, age 13

Band Director

All the band boys and all the band girls fear him. He is brutally honest. He will make you bow down to his queen, the chicken foot. Pray you don’t miss a note. Or come in a beat too late. Without Mr. Ellis, we would never be able to call ourselves anything more than kids who own an instrument. Without Mr. Ellis, we would never be Musicians.

CHAPTER 1: TEEN LIFE 49 Taylor Blackwell, age 18 It is important to sometimes turn off the news and enjoy the company of others. This started as a poem and turned into a song.

Don’t You Know?

Here, there you are stretched out on the floor with your arms over your head. There, here you are. I’ll feed you tea and oranges like Leonard Cohen said.

The wilting black-eyed Susans. If love’s a game we’re losing. I like lilies better, don’t you know?

Here, there you stay bundled up in blankets up to your chin. There, here you stay. We’ll keep warm while the ice is growing thin.

The polar bears are dying. Is there love in lying? Your words kill me, don’t you know?

Throw on your Bowie tee. Go fetch the morning coffee. We’ll read news in drudgery, the world around us crumbling.

52 Indigo Mapa, age 14 This came from a prompt to write about a gift (any gift, whether it’s physical or not) that you have received.

Gifts

Texts, calls and conversations that last from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. It starts off with a “hello.” Then a game of 20 Questions (more like 100 Questions). Then there are pauses in between, that last a minute, or two, or five, usually checking if our parents will catch us and take our phones away for staying up at such an ungodly hour.

After that passes, an “are you okay?” comes into play. Cue 10-20 minutes of mushy, angsty teenagers ranting about mood swings, feelings and crazy, unbelievable events that occurred in their lives. Then the compliments, comfort and praise come in.

Losing track of time, it’s now 4 a.m. A goodnight is whispered into the phone or typed. A yawn or two are heard. The possibility of someone already passed out lingers in the air. I’m looking forward to the same thing tomorrow night.

CHAPTER 2: FRIENDSHIP 53 Savannah House, age 15 This piece is about two best friends who mean the world to each other. It is written from the perspective of a male, but it is not a romance.

Trees and Books

“Come here,” I said, with daring eyes. We had been reading for hours, and I had finished the three half-read books I’d brought to the park.

She looked up from her book, puzzled, and stood up, stretched and smiled off her yawn. I grabbed her book from her hand and put it down on the blanket in the grass.

Taking her hand, we walked four trees behind our makeshift book nook. I looked back at it in the distance and it surprised me. Food sat in pizza boxes and cookie trays, napkins and beat-up old lunch bags. The light pink feathered blanket blended in with the grass and scattered blossoms, fallen from the trees above.

From any other perspective, she was looking at me. But I knew her too well; I knew she was looking past me. She stepped back from my hand and I let it drop to my side. Her silhouette in the sunlight was beautiful.

She smiled for the first time in weeks, and looked me straight in the eyes. “Let’s dance,” she said.

54 Experiment #5 Belen Gonzalez, age 17

I Write

I write because inside my head are worlds, alternate realities that want to be realized to fly out into the world like the demons of Pandora’s box.

There are stories in my heart, moments in life, too good not to share. People I want to introduce to everyone, places I want others to see.

They whirl my thoughts, cloud my sight and shout at their chains, “Let me free.”

I write because I want to write, because I want to share, because there are stories out there.

CHAPTER 7: WRITING EXPERIMENTS 151 Experiment #6 Kiyanti Schlank, age 15 I was at a WriteGirl workshop in a library, and my mentor and I were given instructions to go to the medical books and write a prescription for change. I wanted it to look like a real recipe, and she encouraged me to write it.

A Recipe for Change

• Step one is to have a mind like a pot, filled to the brim with ideas.

• Next, take the most fitting thought and toss it into a cup with a splash of inspiration.

• Grab all the pills of outsider opinions you may have, smash them together and throw the ashes away (for they will not be necessary).

• Add a few pinches of salt and pepper, your trusty supporters (who may only be a pen and paper).

• Grasp the spoon of infinity to mix your potion so it will last.

• Drink the brew, really chug it down, and in a flash, you will have the world before you, and it will be yours to change.

CHAPTER 7: WRITING EXPERIMENTS 153 Experiment #7 Zoe Frohna, age 15

River

Take thoughts and turn them to me. I will ingest illnesses and idolize ipecac, stripping shelves of shirked stories, coming clean, touching cheeks.

Nicking, noting nigh darkness: “Once overworking overcomes, death doesn’t seem daunting.” Killjoy, killjoy, killjoy.

Bronze bones buried in bleach. Lozenges littering lonely streets, succumbing to slow sorrows. Reality revamps human rights.

Unfazed, universes continue unwinding us. Awful, ain’t it? Arrogance appears. Glaciers grow gaping maws, glitzy glitzy. Thrones of topaz, twinkly tequila, through and through.

CHAPTER 7: WRITING EXPERIMENTS 157 Celine Merino, Age 17 I went to visit my mother’s hometown in Michoacán during winter break and we went to a little island called Janitzio. There, I watched this dance for the frst time.

Danza de los Viejitos

I walked alongside locals and tourists as they circled a pair of dancers. A child stood by as an older dancer slapped his feet against the pavement, the wooden bottoms of his shoes echoing loudly, his movements in sync with the violinist’s upbeat tune.

The mask that concealed his face was what caught my attention the most, its bizarre expression more amusing than frightening — though the child crying next to me said otherwise. The violin suddenly shifted into something more somber, the dancer’s hunched back lurching forward even more as his movements ceased.

It reflected some sort of sadness, a bit of despair and hopelessness. Then the music was upbeat again, along with the dancer. The boy, who’d stood out of his way, decided to step in, mimicking the older man’s motions. His tiny shoes slapped along the concrete, creating a rhythm that was in sync with the music but differed from what the elder was trying to do.

This was my mother’s culture, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride from the beautiful show.

184 Louana Garraud, age 16 This piece is about the frst New Year’s Eve I spent back in France since I moved to Los Angeles.

A Night in Paris

It’s only ten as I walk in still not knowing anybody.

Unknown faces, places, but we’ll be part of history. Smells and noises slowly making their way to me.

Bubbles pop, set tongues wagging, and some boy tells me his story.

We speak our minds, what do we care, music will drown our honesty.

Raising our glass, counting from ten in unity.

The clock now rests. Put on our vests, leaving — the night will forget me.

We live. Youth of Paris. The first of January.

186 Autumn Victoria, age 18 At the WriteGirl Poetry Workshop at the Pasadena Public Library, I browsed through the geography section, pulled out a book and read a powerful sentence about the country Benin.

Benin

On deserted beaches driftwood and seaweed walk along the sand taking over the passage where slave ships once sailed polluting the water as it is now beginning its transformation for a free wave that beats on the lives of the new generation stunning indigenous architecture of solid homes that stay bold in colors stubborn in their own existence as the sea and land become fiercely unrelenting.

CHAPTER 9: PLACE 187 Sammy Park, age 16 Being a feminist and a multi-dimensional person allows me the freedom to be myself, regardless of norms.

Liking Pop Music Is Radical

In a society that judges teenage girls for everything, being authentically “you” is a challenge.

Music, clothes, even speech by girls are policed by a patriarchal society.

And so when I love Fifth Harmony publicly, or Ed Sheeran’s new album, I am well aware of the consequences.

I am through trying to defy every gender expectation set before me.

Yes, I like pop music and have an affinity for pop culture. That does not make me any less of a feminist.

190 Malena Logan, age 15 I thought about the main way that I connect to music – for me that’s when I’m either having a great or not-so-great day.

How to Feel Better with Melody

When the day is long, you come home, slip the door shut, listening for the turn and click of the doorknob. You wash yourself of conformity with the large sweater-like cloth back into what you know, what has rhythm and tempo. Mood lighting is key: soft purples and pinks with hints of warm bright light of the slow-melting sandalwood and sage. Note the vintage scratch as the needle cascades from your fingertips to the record.

Sway at first, letting the euphoric sense of calm wrap around like the warmth of a friend you’ve waited too long to see. The lyrics roll off your tongue, speaking for every tear, every scream. Arms, shoulders and hips swinging much like your mother’s did. Let your body double over, allowing your tears to hit the ground. Eventually your body will begin to thrash, taking no precaution of the objects around you. You will know when you are done when your legs collapse, the music stops, and you are out of breath.

CHAPTER 10: MUSIC 191 Olivia Trollinger, age 17 I wrote this in a coffee shop while some upbeat jazz music was playing. I couldn’t tell you what song — I’m not a jazz afcionado.

here’s jazz

Longsleeve Rhoda permed and porched out on a rocking chair, the sun low and golden under the eyes of the other mothers. “She accumulates from time to time (at night) every night: You’ll only see it if she finds you unlucky. And I’ll tell you a secret: What comes from milk poured warm over equal sacrifice?”

192 Cindy Liu, age 15

Music I Remember

Faded photograph I take out and dust off. My fingers twitch as they recall the smooth coldness of the black and white keys of the piano, and suddenly I am alive with the woody scent of rosin dust beneath the hairs of the violin bow as it swirls through my veins, and the faint metallic scent of violin strings on fingertips stained with stripes of gray.

Some days, I forget the way my bones tremble in the sound of music. On those days, I sit in this stranger’s body that doesn’t shiver in the pulsating chords and vibration of strings.

Today, I remember music like a resurfacing memory I catch as it slips through the cracks of my cupped hands.

CHAPTER 10: MUSIC 193 Katherine Pyne-Jaeger, age 16 I wrote this piece recently after watching a performance of Man of La Mancha at a local community theater. The woman playing the musical’s main female role had an exceptionally striking presence I’d never noticed in an actress — a feral, tenacious and fundamentally unashamed sense of self. For those unfamiliar with the musical, during the fnale, said actress leads the cast in a reprise of its most famous number (most of you will at least have heard of “The Impossible Dream,” I don’t doubt). While I watched, for a moment before the houselights went down, her face looked as if something holy had struck it: her eyes were like those of Saint Teresa in Bernini’s Ecstasy. I understood with complete certainty that I needed to attempt to preserve that in a poem. The title refers to Saint Cecilia, Roman martyr beheaded in Sicily and patroness of musicians.

Cecilia

A woman with the body of a lion sang. Something began to stream forth from the forge door of her eyes. It was her soul. It lifted briefly, Sublimely, out of the dark.

194 Ava Chamberlin, age 14 I love to shop for old records and always wonder what they sound like, where they came from and the stories they could tell.

Discovering

Dust danced before my eyes as I stared down at rows upon rows of twelve-inch cardboard sleeves. I flipped through as many as I could. They were all black vinyl on the inside but seemed so different on the outside. Some were new and unopened, and some were tattered and well loved. All of them told a different story.

Had they been lost and forgotten in some basement, waiting for someone to pluck them out from the dark? Or had they been a cherished collection that just wasn’t relevant anymore? I wondered when they had been played: at a cheerful wedding, after a breakup, or maybe during a first date?

Each one had a story behind it, and I wished I could find some way to know each and every one, but I was on a budget after all, so I’d have to get to know only two. I decided to find the most tattered and worn sleeves with graphics fading from being eagerly handled so many times. There would be a few scratches on the grooves, but I didn’t mind. If they were ripped and taped back together, I knew that they had to be good, that they probably contained someone’s favorite songs. Listening to someone’s cherished songs would allow me to know not only the album but the person who owned it as well.

As I picked my final two, I wondered, would these records end up at another place just like this one, and would someone come pick them out and uncover a piece of me as well?

202 Sequoia Sherriff, age 16 Every seven years, all cells in the human body are slowly replaced with new ones. Although this is an incredibly interesting scientifc fact, it’s also heartbreaking at the same time.

Seven Years

“Did you know, after seven years, every cell in the human body is replaced?”

It was the first thing you ever said to me. I don’t know if it was meant to be an interesting fact or some sort of jolting hook for the life you were living, but I was intrigued.

I think that was how our friendship worked. You would say something abrupt, and I would be fascinated.

“That can’t be true,” I would say, my head leaning against my palm, my eyes wide with curiosity.

And then you would rattle on about how, yes, of course that was true and, yes, you had found it on the internet, but when was the internet ever wrong? And light bulbs would go off over your head and you’d wave your arms around as you spoke, and I had never seen anything as breathtakingly magnificent in my entire life.

And it went on for seven years.

I learned about everything from black toothpaste (and the fact that it cleaned better than regular toothpaste), to the gold paint on the edges of books, to the effects of singing as soon as you woke up in the morning, to the legitimate size that wings would have to be if human beings were meant to fly.

206 Mayra Blas, age 18 I wrote this about relationships.

Same Old, Same Old

You and me, a song on repeat engraved into my brain I already know the words you’re going to say

The time of day doesn’t matter You sing I still sing along (as if it weren’t an overplayed song)

I can’t bring my heart to skip you Your beat keeps it dancing your sweet melody

I hear the beginning of your song and every time

I can’t help but hope you’ll only ever sing it to me

CHAPTER 11: LOVE 209 Jay Shillingford, age 18 I wrote this in a WriteGirl workshop and edited it many times over with my mentor at the time. I wrote it because I was trying to dig deep and fnd out how I could paint a picture with words, to have the reader see what I felt. I wrote it for my girlfriend and for myself.

Last I Saw You

You were walking away. It was warm and sunny, but cold air came like whiplash to my face and heart. I felt time slowing and my eyes burning and stinging. The grass felt hollow between my fingertips and the air smelled salty. I kept thinking, how long until I see you again, as you started to slip from my gaze.

The last hug from you was a comforting cup of tea that filled me up with overwhelming warmth. I knew that too soon you and I needed to go separate ways, and I fought the tears that threatened to spill. One more thought of this bittersweet memory and I won’t be able to watch you leave without me. The truth is, as I saw your back turning and you walking quickly, we both knew that if you didn’t leave fast enough you’d be stuck with me forever.

222 Isabel Alejandra Aguirre, age 17 I wanted to write about a couple I saw when I was with my father fshing at Venice Beach. The couple was dancing along the boardwalk, and when she saw me sitting there while my dad fshed she approached. Without saying a word she offered me the rose I presume her partner gave her. I was about ten years old.

The Rose

I gazed at the couple down the boardwalk. They were there, dancing and twirling together. All I could do was stare.

They held one another softly, as if this were the last time they would see each other.

He was like a dream. And she was the one. A couple made from above.

Slowly they both leaned in … her cheeks a soft rose and his eyes which held pure love.

Two inches close, the kiss a mixture of fireworks and then warmth blossoming within her. Then she glanced at me and smiled warmly.

I remember this day and don’t want it to fade, the day a woman in love gave me a rose. This memory of love, which keeps me hopeful to this day.

CHAPTER 11: LOVE 223 Anya Baranets, age 15 This song isn’t about anyone specifcally; it just kind of came to me.

Forget Me Not

Verse I like the way you look in my eyes You are my sun, and you always rise You keep me happy and filled with hope You are the one who keeps me afloat

Chorus And I like your eyes, like water drops I like your words and pretty thoughts Love me now, forget me not Love me now, forget me not

Verse I like the flowers in your hair I like the way you’re standing there I like your smile in the dark Your soft voice singing like a lark

Chorus And I like your eyes, like water drops I like your words and pretty thoughts Love me now, forget me not Love me now, forget me not

224 Reina Esparza, age 19

Rise Up

They’ll try to stop your flight, try to pull you down.

But you can’t hear them, won’t feel them. Poisons of the past just roll off your body.

And you see it all: the joy, the love, the hope. And you rise to your best self.

You rise and rise up, above anything. You have arrived, your soul warm and bright.

CHAPTER 12: RESIST 239

AT A TIME WHEN I THOUGHT I HAD NO “ POWER, WRITEGIRL“ HELPED ME FIND MY VOICE. Never underestimate the power of a girl and her pen.

336 CONNECT WITH WRITEGIRL

Visit our website: writegirl.org

Check out our blog: writegirl.org/blog

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Never underestimate the power of a girl and her pen.

337 Keep writing and be kind to yourself.